Crystal Dragon
by
Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
Copyright 2006 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

One
Light Wing Transitioning to the Ringstars

TOR AN YOS'GALAN SIGHED softly, rubbed his eyes and released the shock-webbing. The main screen displayed a profusion of green, violet and yellow flowers tangled across an artful tumble of natural rock. Arcing above the rocks and flowers was a piata tree, slender silver trunk bent beneath its burden of fruit. Had he been at home, and the back window of his room ajar, he would have heard the midday breeze in the ceramic bell he'd hung in the piata's branches when he'd been a boy, and smelled the flowers' pungent perfume.
       The odors here, on the bridge of the ancient single-ship the clan had assigned to his use, were of plate metal, oil, and disinfectant. Ship smells, as comforting in their way as the constant whisper of air through the vents.
      Tor An sighed again, and looked to his secondary screen, where the time to transition end counted down slowly, and pushed out of the pilot's chair.
       Soon. Soon, he would be home.
       He had hoped to arrive during the census—the grand gathering of ship and folk that took place every twelve years, by Alkia clan law. Alas, his piloting instructor, aside from being a demon on rote, had disallowed his request to double his shifts so that he might depart a Common month early with his big-ship license. Worse, she had then seen fit to short-shift him, so it was only by taking on extra work with the astrogator that he was able to amass the minimum number of flight-points required to attain the coveted license.
      All that being so, he'd sent his proxy and his apologies to his sister Fraea, coincidentally the Voice of Alkia. He'd half-expected a return message, but was scarcely surprised when none came. The census was a time of frenetic busyness for those in Administration—and besides, he had received a message from her shortly before he had sent off his regrets, and that missive had contained more than enough information with which he might beguile his few unclaimed hours.
      Clan Alkia, so Fraea had written, had recently entered into an alliance with the Mazdiot Trade Clan, jointly purchasing a trade ship—a vessel larger than either might fund of itself. The crew and traders were to be drawn equally from each clan; Tor An, once he had his big-ship license in hand, was to represent the interests of Clan Alkia on the all-important first voyage.
       It was, so Fraea had written, a very great honor for him.
       Yes, well. His eyes strayed to the main screen. How he wanted to be home! To walk in the old garden, rub his hand over the rocky tumble, pluck a fruit from the piata's branches, and set the ceramic bell to chiming. He wanted, after all this time away, to do nothing more than return to his old rooms, and be still for a time—which was simply foolishness. He was a pilot and a licensed trader; a member of the premier trading family of the Ringstars. It was not for him to spend his life idle on the ground. Even those who served the clan as inventory specialists or 'counts managers spent more time between ships than ever upon the surface of the so-called homeworld. The homeworld was for those whose time of active service was done—and for those whose time was yet to come.
      Indeed, he knew very well that the rooms he had continued, throughout his time away, to think of as "his" were occupied by Grandfather Syl Vor, who was, as Fraea had also written, in the embrace of his final illness, and required the comfort of the open rooms and forgotten garden more than one who stood on the edge of beginning his life's toil.
       Upon his arrival at Alkia's planetary base, the clan's son Tor An would be assigned a cot in the transients dorm until it was time for him to ship out. Perhaps he would be able to visit the garden—and Grandfather Syl Vor, as well. Perhaps he would be able to do neither, but be dispatched immediately to the trade ship. It was for Fraea, as Alkia's Voice, to decide these matters. His was to obey.
      Obedience was a lifelong habit. On the bridge of old Light Wing, he breathed easier for remembering that there was order and progression in his life; and all that was required of him, really, was obedience.
      Calmed, if not comforted, he pushed out of the pilot's chair and moved toward the galley. There was time for a meal, a shower, and a nap before transition's end.
* * *

THE MIST FADED, teased apart by a small breeze bearing the odors of fuel, dust, and hull metal.
       Around them, insubstantial in the melting mist, star-faring ships sat at rest upon cermacrete ready-pads. They themselves stood upon an empty pad, which was folly of a sort; the gentleman holding the lady's hand high, his lips pressed soft against her fingers.
       Which was folly of another sort.
      The lady extended her free hand and cupped the gentleman's smooth golden cheek, stretching high on her toes to do so. She sank back, and the gentleman released her hand with a gentle smile.
       "The skies are clear," the lady said, tucking both hands into the full sleeves of her gown.
      "A passing circumstance, I assure you," the gentleman answered, making a show of looking upwards, hand shading his eyes.
      "Rool." The lady sighed.
      He brought his gaze down to her face, one copper brow arched ironically.
      "It is not," she said sternly, "a joke."
      "Indeed it is not," he replied, and there was no irony in his voice. "We shall be discovered soon enough, fear it not. Our challenge is to appear genuine in our flight, while neither losing our pursuit nor altering aught that might also alter what has been set in motion." He smiled. "The choice is made; we cannot prevail. I swear it."
      The lady's pale lips softened briefly as she looked up into his face.
      "The modifications will stand the test," she said seriously. "Are you able? Are you—willing? It might yet be undone."
      "No!" His voice was sharp, the smile fled. He gripped her shoulders and stared down into her eyes. "It is only the certainty that the modifications will stand that gives me hope of the final outcome." His lips quirked, and he dropped his hands.
      "You see what I am brought to—a slave who clings to his prison, and treasures his jailor above himself."
      The lady laughed, high and sweet.
      "Yes, all very well," the gentleman murmured, and tipped his head, considering her out of earnest blue eyes.
      "We will diminish," he said. "At best, and with everything proceeding as we wish."
      The lady swayed a half-bow, scarcely more than a ripple of her gray robe. "Indeed, we will diminish. Is the price too high?"
       The gentleman closed his eyes, and extended a delicate hand. The lady caught between her tiny palms.
      "I am ...a poor creature, set against what I once was," he whispered. "We choose, not only for us, here, as we are and have become, but for those others, for whom we have no right to choose."
      "Ah." She pressed his hand gently. "And yet, if we do not choose for them, we are parties to their destruction—and to the destruction of all, even those who never understood that a choice existed. Is this not so?"
      He sighed, mouth twisting into a smile as he opened his eyes. "It is. Don't heed me—a passing horror of being trapped by that which is malleable. And yet, if one certain outcome is necessary..."
       "Yes," the lady murmured. "The luck must not be disturbed, now that it has gathered."
       "The luck swirls as it will," the gentleman said, slipped his hand from between her palms. "Well, then. If we are both reduced to hope, then let us hope that the agents of luck proceed down the path we have set them on. The one is bound by honor; the other—"
      "Hush," the lady murmured. "The lines are laid."
       "Yet free will exists," the gentleman insisted—and smiled into her frown. "No, you are correct. We have done what we might. And once they pass the nexus, the lines themselves conspire against deviation..."
      The lady inclined her head. "Our case is similar. We may not deviate, lest we unmake what we have wrought, and destroy hope for once and ever. If—"
      She checked, head cocked as if she detected a sound—
       "Yes," said the gentleman, and his smile this time was neither pleasant nor urbane. "Shelter against me, love. It begins."
      The lady put her back against his chest. He placed his hands upon her shoulders, fingers gripping lightly.
       "Stay," he murmured. "We cannot risk being missed."
      Scarcely breathing, they waited, listening to sounds only they could hear, watching shadows only they could see.
       "Now," breathed the lady.
       And they were gone.
* * *
Two
Spiral Dance Transition

"Landomist, is it?" Cantra spun the pilot's chair thirty degrees and glared down-board at her copilot.
       Jela spared her a black, ungiving glance, in no way discommoded by the glare.
       "I gave my word," he said mildly.
      She sighed, hanging on to her temper with both hands, so to speak, pitched her voice for reasonable, and let the glare ease back somewhat.
       "Right. You gave your word. Now ask yourself what you gave you word to, exactly, where they-or-it are now, and with what harrying at their heels."
      Jela gave his screens one more leisurely look-over, like there was anything to see except transition-sand; released the chair's webbing and stood, stretching tall—or as tall as he could, which wasn't very.
       "You could probably do with a stretch yourself," he said, giving her wide, concerned eyes. "All that tricky flying's soured your temper."
       In spite of herself, she laughed, then released the webbing with a snap, and came to her feet, stretching considerably taller than him—and Deeps but didn't it feel good just to let the long muscles move.
      Jela rolled his broad shoulders and grinned at her.
       "Feel better?"
      She gave him the grin back, and relaxed out of the stretch.
       "Much," she said cordially, there being no reason not to. "And now that I'm returned to sweet and reasonable, maybe you could apply yourself to being sensible. Did you or did you not hear the lady say it was a sheriekas lord's fancy we'd caught?"
       "I heard her," Jela answered calmly. "I also heard her say she and her mate were going to draw it away, and give us a chance to do what we'd agreed to do."
       "What you agreed to do," she snapped. "I didn't agree to anything."
       The inside of her head tickled at that, and she caught a brief scent of mint, which was what the seedpods grown by the third member of the crew smelled like. She sent a sharp look to the end of the board, where Jela's damn' tree sat in its pot, leaves fluttering in the air flow from the vent.
      Or not.
       "Our orders," Jela began—Cantra cut him off with a slash of her hand and a snarl.
       "Orders!"
       "Our orders," Jela repeated, overriding her without any particular trouble, "are clear." He tipped his head and added, at a considerably lesser volume, "Or so they seem to me. You're a sharp one for a detail, Pilot. Do you remember what she said?"
      Damn the man.
       "I remember," she said shortly.
       "She said," he continued, as if she hadn't spoken, "You, the pilot and the ssussdriad will proceed to the world Landomist. You will recover Liad dea'Syl's equations which describe the recrystallization exclusion function and use them in the best interest of life. Do I have that right, Pilot?"
       She'd've denied it, if there'd been room, but Jela wasn't too bad with a detail himself, when he cared to apply himself.
       "You've got it close enough," she allowed, still short and snappish. "And the fact that you were pleased to give your word on it don't make the rest of us daft enough to fall prey to the gentle lady's delusions."
       "She and her mate are our allies," Jela said, like it made a difference. "We shared the tree's fruit. She trusts us to carry out our part of the campaign."
      Cantra closed her eyes.
       "Jela."
      "Pilot Cantra?"
      "What do you think the sheriekas lord is going to do with yon pretty children when they're caught?"
       "Interrogate them," he said promptly.
       Well now there was a sensible answer, after all. She opened her eyes and gave him a smile for reward.
       "Granting the sheriekas have a fine arsenal of nasties at their beck," she pursued, bringing the Rim accent up hard, "it seems to me likely that Rool Tiazan and his sweet lady will say all they know of everything, and a good number of things of which they have no ken, among it being one soldier, who gave his word to travel straightaway to Landomist for to liberate some 'quations in the service of all those who're enemies of the Enemy." She drew a careful breath, seeing nothing in his eyes but her own reflection.
       "Stay with me now. Where do you think that canny cold lord will next turn its care, having heard the dramliza sing?"
       "Landomist," Jela said calmly.
      Cantra felt the glare rising and overrode it with another smile, this one showing puzzled.
      "So, knowing that, you're wanting to follow these orders as you style them, and have the three of us down on Landomist, nice and easy for the sheriekas to find?"
      "I gave my word," Jela said, which brought them full circle.
      Once again, a ghostly taste of mint along her tongue. Cantra snapped a look down board, and flung out an arm, drawing Jela's attention to his tree.
       "All the care and trouble you've gone to for that damn' vegetable, and now you're wishful of putting it in the path of mortal danger? You done caring what happens to it?"
      Whatever reaction she might have expected him to deploy against such a blatant piece of theater, laughter—genuine laughter—was among the last.
       Head thrown back, Jela shouted his delight. The tree, for its part, snapped a bow, leaves flashing—and no way the vent had put out a gust strong enough to account for that.
      Cantra sighed, hitched her thumbs in her belt and waited.
       Jela's laughter finally wound down to a series of deep-in-the-chest chuckles. He raised a hand and wiped the tears off his cheeks, grinning white and wide.
       "Mind sharing the joke?" she asked, keeping her tone merely curious.
       For a heartbeat it seemed like he was going to engage in some further hilarity at her expense. If he was, he controlled the urge, and waved a shaky hand in the general direction of the tree.
       "Pilot, that tree is more soldier than I'll ever be. It held a planet against the sheriekas, all by itself, when it wasn't any thicker than my first-finger, here. It knows the risks—what we stand to gain, what we stand to lose. None better, I'll bet you—and I'm including the dramliza in that set."
      Another swipe of fingertips across cheeks to smooth away the last of the laugh-tears. "Ask it yourself, if you don't believe me."
       Behind her eyes, unbidden, came a series of pictures. A green, tree-grown world, and the shadows of wings overhead in the high air. Then came a feeling of oppression, as the grass dried, the wings vanished and the first of the very Eldest trembled, wavered—and crashed to the drying earth.
      The pictures went on, elucidating the trees' muster, as they fought a delaying action, first in groups, at the last one or two alone, as the world dried until only sand was left. The rivers evaporated, the sea shrank to a trickle, and still the trees held the enemy away by will, as Cantra understood it to be—and by won't.
       It was a campaign doomed to failure, of course, and the last few soldiered on, their life force stretched thin. The feeling of oppression grew into a tangible weight, and the winds whipped, scattering sand across the corpses of trees, which was all that remained—save one.
       Cantra's throat was closed with dust, thirst an agony. She felt her sap falling and knew her death was near. She was too young, her resources too meager, and yet she bent her energies to her last task, and produced a pod, so the world would not be left unprotected—then waited, singing thin and defiant against the Enemy's howl of desolation.
       But what came next was not death.
      Rather, a new form took shape out of the wind and the sand—not a dragon, yet with something dragon-like about it. It, too, opposed the Enemy. It, too, was dying. It proposed a partnership of mutual survival, that they might together continue to fight.
       The tree accepted the proposal.
      There was a stutter in the storylines, and there was Dancer's bridge, clear enough, and the dramliza on their knees, heads bowed, the echo of the question in her own head, and the answer, damnitall, that she'd made it.
       In the matter of allies, you need to ask yourself two things: Can they shoot? And will they aim at your enemy?
       Quick as a sneeze, then, the tree cut her loose to fall back into her own head so fast and so hard she gasped aloud.
      Cantra blinked and focused on Jela. He had the decency to show her a calm, disinterested face. A mannerly man was Jela, soldier or no.
      "All right, then," she said, and was pleased that her voice sounded as calm and disinterested as Jela's eyes. "There's two of you agreed to cleave to madness. The fact remains that I never gave my word."
       "Now, that's very true," Jela allowed. "You never did give your word." He turned his big hands up, showing her empty, calloused palms. "Belike the lady thought we'd all stand as crewmates. But if you're determined not to risk yourself—and I'll agree that it's not a risk-free venture—then there's nothing more to say. I will ask you the favor of setting me and the tree down someplace we're likely to catch public transport to Landomist. I'd rather not call attention to us by coming in on a hired ship."
      Almost, she did him the favor of returning a shout of his earlier laughter. She strangled the urge, though, and gave him as serious and stern a look as she could muster.
       "I could do that," she said. "I'm assuming you have a plan for getting at those equations, locked up tight as they are in Osabei Tower."
       "I do."
       Cantra sighed. "And that would be?"
       He tipped his head, making a play-act out of consideration, and finally gave her an apologetic grin, as false as anything she'd ever had from him.
       "It's my campaign," he said, "and my word. The way I see it, you've got no need to know. Pilot."
       It was said respectful enough, and in any case wasn't anything more or less than the plain truth. Nothing to notch her annoyance up to anger—so she told herself, and took a hard breath.
       "Ever been to Landomist?" she asked, keeping her voice light and pleasant.
       "Never," he answered in the same tone. "I don't get deep Inside much."
       "Understandable. That being the case, you might not be familiar with the Towers?"
       Jela moved his wide shoulders, head tipped to one side. "I've come across them in citations, tech lit and such. Each Tower represents a discipline and includes subsets of the discipline which hold conflicting philosophies."
      Not bad, Cantra conceded. Dangerously simplistic, but not bad.
      "Those conflicting philosophies, now," she said, just offering info—"they're more often than not the cause of blood duels and worse 'mong the scholars. Establish enough unchallenged theory—that being equally those who don't challenge the worth of a particular theory and those who challenged and lost—and a scholar gets moved to the High Tower and lives untouchable as a master."
      Jela frowned and moved his hand, fingers flickering—pilot-talk for get on with it.
       "Right," she said. "Osabei Tower, now, that's Spatial Math. Named after one Osabei tay'Bendril who brought pilot-kind the good numbers that make transition possible. Before Scholar tay'Bendril, pilots had to go the long way 'round and it might take a lifetime or two to traverse the Arm. They prolly gave you all that in 'mong the rest of pilot lore, same's they gave it to me. But what they didn't likely give you was the fact that the Towers're closed, and fortified, and they don't like strangers. But that's not your first problem."
       She paused. Jela's face showed nothing but bland interest, damn the man. Well, she was the one who'd charted this course; he hadn't asked for her advice.
      "Your first problem," she continued, "is that it's Landomist, about as Inside as you can get and not be on the other side of the Spiral. You put one boot on Landomist without a writ or a license and you'll be exported before the second boot's down, if you're lucky—or memwiped and impressed to an Honorable, if you're not."
       Jela rolled his shoulders and gave her a grin, slightly more genuine than the last.
       "So, I'll have a writ to show."
       "Assuming it's good enough and the Portmaster's not having a bad day, then you get a native guide to walk at your shoulder while you go about your lawful business, and to remind you when you step out from bounds."
       He laughed.
       "Pilot, you know a shadow's not going to stay with me."
       "Lose or kill your assigned guide and you're a dead man," she snarled, surprising herself, "and a stupid man at the last."
      Silence for the beat of three.
      "Eventually, I'm a dead man, but I'd like to think not stupid," Jela said seriously. "Tell me why I can't just slip free, and go invisible."
       Because it's Landomist! she wanted to shout—but didn't.
       "Come with me," was what she said instead, and strode out of the piloting room without looking to see if he followed, down the short hall to her quarters.
       The door opened with a snap that seemed reflective of her state of mind, and she concentrated on breathing nice and even while she crossed over to her locker and opened it wide.
       For a moment she was alone in the polished metal mirror—a slender woman in trade leathers, pale hair cut off blunt at the stubborn jaw, features sharp, smooth skin toned gold, eyes a cool and misty green. Neither face, nor eyes, nor stance betrayed the slightest perturbation, nor the satisfaction she felt upon observing this.
      A whisper from the rear and her reflection was joined by a second—broad shoulders and slim waist, both set off something fine by the leathers. Black hair, cropped; black eyes, bland. His face was brown, symmetrical, and a bit leaner than the shoulders predicted, with a firm mouth and strong brows. The top of his head didn't quite hit her shoulder, despite he bore himself upright and proud.
       She used her chin to point at her own reflection.
       "That," she announced, "is Inside norm, bred out of certified stock proven across more generations than you got time to hear or me to tell."
       "All right," Jela said quietly.
      "All right," she repeated, and pointed at his reflection.
      "That is a gene-tailored series biologic."
       "All right," he said again, and met her eyes in the mirror. "You're saying they aren't used to seeing Series soldiers on Landomist."
       "I'm saying the only way anything other than Inside norm exists on Landomist is as property," Cantra corrected, and turned to look down into his face.
      "You can't disappear on Landomist—and that's before you start having to tote that damn' tree around with you. There's just nobody there who looks like you, saving maybe a few household guards some Honorable might've bought from the military as curiosities."
      His eyes moved and his jaw muscles tightened up, it upset him that much. Cantra reached out and touched his shoulder, taking care to keep it light and comradely, and smiled when he looked back to her.
       "What you want is an agent," she said. "Set it up right, take your time—"
      He laughed, soft, and slid out from under her hand.
       "Time," he said, turning away, "is exactly what I don't have."
       She frowned at his back. "You think the children're likely to get caught right off? Seemed to me they had a few worthy tricks to hand."
      Jela paused, hesitated, then slowly turned to face her again.
      "That's not where the crunch is," he said, and her ear registered absolute sincerity; unvarnished truth. He took a hard breath, and looked down at his broad, capable hands.
       "It's me that's the problem. I'm old."
      "Old?" She stared at the hard, inarguable bulk of him. "How old can you be?"
       "Forty-four years, one-hundred-fifteen-and-one-twelfth days," he said. "Common Calendar." Another hard breath as he brought his eyes up and met hers firmly.
       "Forty-five years is the design limit," he said steadily.
       Cantra felt something cold and multi-clawed skitter through her gut.
       "Design limit," she repeated, and closed her eyes, recalling Rool Tiazan's lady, her sharp eyes on Jela while she snapped out that time was short for each one of them.
       And for some, it was shorter than others.
       Anger trembled—anger at the dramliza. So busy about their promises. They had known—known that the man they'd built all their airy plans on had less than five months to live. Common Calendar. And with all the wonders the pair could likely make between them, they didn't pause for the heartbeat it might've cost—
       "First aid kit," she said, huskily, and opened her eyes to meet Jela's calm gaze. "We put you in the first aid kit," she amplified when he didn't do anything more than lift a lazy black eyebrow. "Get you put back to spec, then you take what time you need to plan out your campaign."
      "Pilot—"
      She raised a hand. "I know you're not friends with the 'kit, but own it has its uses. You saw what it did for Dulsey—Deeps! You saw what it did for me. You climb yourself in and I'll set us a cour—"
      "Cantra." He didn't raise his voice, but there was still enough snap in it to cut her off in mid-word. She felt the muscles of her face contract and wondered wildly what she'd been showing him.
       Having stopped her, Jela didn't seem in any hurry to fill up the cabin with words of his own. He just stood there, head to a side, looking at her—and if truth be told there was something odd going on in his face, too.
      He moved then, one careful step, keeping his hands where she could see them. Motionless, she watched him take her hand between both of his broad palms.
      His skin was warm, his hands gentle. He craned his head back, black eyes searching her face, his absolutely open.
      "Remember when the first aid kit didn't work?" he asked, like they were discussing what cargo was best to take on. "Garen had to take you to the Uncle for a receptor flush because the first aid kit didn't cure the edlin. That was why, wasn't it? Because all the 'kit could do was put you back to spec."
       Pain. Thoughts staggering through reeking blood-red mists...then coolness as reason returned in the friendly dark. The lid rose, she rolled out—and collapsed to the floor, screaming as the pain took her again...
       "And spec included the gimmicked receptors," she said, suddenly and deeply weary. "Right."
       "Right," Jela said softly. "It's in the design, Cantra. M Series soldiers are decommissioned at forty-five years." He smiled, sudden and genuine. "Safer that way."
      "Safer..." she whispered and her free hand moved on its own, gripping his shoulder hard.
       "Rool Tiazan," she said after a moment. "He asked how you'd choose to die."
       "He did," Jela said briskly. "And if the tree and me are to liberate the good scholar's math, publish it wholesale, and die in battle, I'd better not take too many naps."
      She smiled slightly, and stepped back, taking her hand off his shoulder, slipping the other from between his palms. He watched her out of calm black eyes.
       "If it ain't your intention to die on Landomist Port," she said, turning to shut the locker door, "and see the tree broken and burned before you do, you'll employ that agent to work your will, like I said you should."
       Behind her, she heard Jela sigh.
       "It has to be a frontal attack," he said patiently. "I don't know how to employ the sort of agent you advise. And I don't have time to train him."
      Face to the locker, she closed her eyes, hearing again the tiny lady's sharp voice listing out the terms of Jela's service:
      You, the pilot and the ssussdriad will proceed to the world Landomist...
      Not her fight, dammit. She'd not sworn to any such madness.
       Pay your debts, baby, Garen ghost-whispered from the gone-away past. There ain't no living with yourself, if you don't.
      Deeps knew, she wouldn't be living at all, were it not for Jela—and, truth told full, the tree, as well.
      Cantra sighed, very softly, opened her eyes and turned to face him.
       "Her," she said, and met his eyes firm, giving a good imitation of woman with a sensible decision on deck. "I can get you in."